


Stranger in the Mirror

by smiles2go



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E., NCIS
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-12
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 01:51:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/510038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smiles2go/pseuds/smiles2go
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his heart attack on the beach, 'Ducky' decides it time to stop prentending to be Dr. Donald Mallard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This fic refused to be patient and get in line behind the rest of the bunnies and WIPs I have going. Even though it's fairly short, it's demanded tweak after tweak. Please enjoy.

Standing at attention in front of the flashy hotel mirror, he examined himself critically. Too many wrinkles, too little hair. How had he gotten so old? Where had the years gone?

_You died yesterday. Myocardial infarction, remember? Whose bright idea was it to take a walk on the beach alone? Oh right. That would be you._

“Someone found me and called 911.” He reminded his reflection. “The kind doctors at the hospital revived me and here I am.” Was his mouth moving in the reflection or was all this in his head? Maybe he was still laying on the sand, letting the surf slosh him back and forth.

 _You coded twice. You were dead. Dead._

“Not like it’s the first time.” His reflection mirrored the rueful smile.

 _No, but one of these times will be the last time._

“Everyone dies. Eventually.” He swallowed and ignored the hard look his reflection gave him. “Even me.”

_Yes, but who will you die as? Dr. Mallard or yourself?_

“I…” He looked down at his black shoes polished to a mirror finish and yet somehow out of place against the dull brown carpet. He waited, but the reflection didn’t speak. “I…” He began after a moment and made the mistake of looking up.

_You’ve hid for far too long. Napoleon would be ashamed of you. Coward._

“No!” He shouted fiercely and looked up without thinking. “He was my partner.” 

_And you let your partner die._ There. It was out in the open, after oh so many years. The unvarnished truth. Or subjective truth. It was hard to tell anymore.

“I wasn’t my fault.” He protested in a hoarse whisper. “I wasn’t even there.”

 _It was your job to be there, to have his back. You think he wouldn’t have been there for you? He was always there for you._

“It was his fault! He wasn’t supposed to go alone. He knew better. He should’ve waited for me.” Damned cocky American playboy. “I would never have let those bastard THRUSH agents shoot him in the back.” Biting his lips together he brushed angrily at the single tear streaking down his cheek. “It was no good after that. I couldn’t… wouldn’t …” Taking a shaky breath, he went on quietly. “They shouldn’t have tried to partner me up with newbies—I was never a babysitter.”

_So you ran and hid your sins in made-up life. One that was much nicer and kinder than your true self. At least you didn’t create a decadent American persona. At least you had that much sense left. Tell me, did you find expiation? Did being Dr. Mallard heal you?_

“No.” He stared at the reflection for a long time. Others … no.” 

_You died yesterday. This morning you woke up in a strange hospital and if not for the kindness of strangers, you would be dead and buried with a headstone reading Dr. Donald “Ducky” Mallard in some flowery Virginia graveyard. Is that what you really want?_

“No.” He shook head decisively at the mirror. “I don’t want do this anymore. I want to be me again.”

 _It’s time. You could’ve been free anytime in the last thirty-three years._

“Yes. You’re right. Ducky has to die. I need a place to hide, where Jethro won’t find me.”

 _Sochi. Uncle Pavel’s old place on the mountain. Just because you never acknowledged the will, doesn’t mean it was invalid. You could go there and rest. Find out how to be yourself again._

“I’d have to go immediately. Jethro will be back at the hospital by now. He’ll never let me go.”

_Have you forgotten all your training? Have you become the soft, decadent American you teased Napoleon of being? Once you would have run rings around Jethro Gibbs and his team of bright-eyed children._

“Heaven forbid!” Sliding the closet door open and incidentally dispatching the reflection, he jerked the suit jacket off a hanger, letting it swing wildly while he pressed a shaky hand over his chest. 

_Ignore the pain. Pain can be dealt with later._

A moment to verify wallet and cell phone were in the pocket and he was at the door. That would be enough to get him on a flight to DC this afternoon before he went about systematically eliminating Donald Mallard. He would leave Jethro a note, telling him he was going away to rest and recuperate, to let him be. By the time Jethro started worrying there would be no trace of Ducky. He took another look back. Everything else belonged to Donald Mallard—the good doctor who died yesterday. A quick look down the hall as he fumbled with the DO NOT DISTURB sign and he was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

Shoulders hunched stiffly against the cold wind, Gibbs stumbled over the wooden step half covered in snow. _Finally._ Stopping to look back the way he’d come, his stomach give a dizzying lurch. Suddenly thankful he hadn’t tried to drive up that narrow zig-zagging path, Gibbs realized the drive down would’ve been suicide in all this snow and ice. How the hell had Ducky gotten up here in the first place, if this was the right place.

Without thinking he looked up and tiny bits of ice pelted him in the face. With an angry snort, he climbed the steps and crossed the porch to stand pensively in front of the huge wooden door. Gibbs took a few deep breaths feeling the burn of frozen air in his lungs and pulled his mirrored sunglasses off. Either there was very little oxygen at this elevation or he was out of shape. Wiggling frozen hands back into the parka’s deep pockets, his fingers closed over the well-worn letter.

_**Dear Jethro,  
Everything you know about me is a lie **_.

Stamping his feet to remove the snow, Gibbs pounded on the door with the edge of his fist. He’d expected to have to pick the lock or kick the door down, but a familiar, albeit sleepy looking man pulled the massive door open. Biting back the anger that surged when he saw Ducky was okay, Gibbs looked at him steadily. “Hi Duck.”

“I might have known you wouldn’t listen.” Blinking at Gibbs in resignation, he pulled his glasses off and shoved them absently into a pocket. Stepping back on the flagstone entrance, he invited Gibbs in with a brusque gesture. “You might as well come in since you’re here.”

**_My name is Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin._ **

Gibbs stamped his feet again, frowning at the sight of Ducky _(he’d be damned if he called him by some outlandish name)_ dressed in all black – turtleneck, jacket, wool slacks and shockingly bare feet. Prim and proper Ducky had been replaced by a younger looking stranger with a reckless charm and his voice was … different. He’d lost the slight Scottish burr and sounded vaguely Russian. Was it that easy to forget half a lifetime? Had he been in deep cover all these years?

He cleared his throat and tried to keep the sarcasm out of his voice and ended up just sounding brisk. “You’re looking … well. I assume you’ve _rested_ long enough?”

Gibbs took a hesitant step inside the dim hallway turning to watch as Illya pushed the door shut, without bothering to lock it. “Jethro.” A short nod followed by a reproachful glare. “You shouldn’t have come. I’m sure I was quite clear on not searching for me.”

_**Dying tends to reorder priorities and one rethinks life choices. After I realized I’d almost spent more time as Donald Mallard than as myself, I knew it was time to stop living a lie.**_

“I thought I’d erased every trace of Donald Mallard. It should have taken you longer than eight months to find me.” He turned and started down the hall but not before Gibbs saw his sheepish grin. “I must be getting old.”

Gibbs didn’t answer, merely followed him down the hallway, his boots leaving little trails of snow across the dark wooden floors. The dim hallway opened into a large, sunlit family room, nothing like Ducky’s comfortably cluttered home in Virginia – instead it was painfully bare, taking minimalism to extreme. There was a couch and two chairs, a low wooden coffee table with several oil lamps clustered in the middle and another small table in a corner with a chess game in progress. A huge stone fireplace took up almost one wall and Gibbs zeroed in on the mantle. There was a framed photo of the team, some picnic or other from last year and beside it, six prescription bottles, the only evidence Ducky’d survived a heart attack. One wall was filled with windows and Gibbs gravitated toward the view. 

“Damned impertinent youth.” He hid a smile as Ducky muttered under his breath. “…interfering…”

“It’s not so easy to disappear these days.” Gibbs said mildly controlling his temper and dropping his parka on a chair. Relief at finding Ducky alive and safe had made him light-headed—that or the lack of oxygen. He hadn’t been sure this was at the right place until the door opened. “Even if you manage to check yourself out the hospital twenty-fours after having been admitted and then vanish.” One swift glance was all it took to confirm Ducky was alone. The silence was absolute. 

_**Please accept my wishes on this matter and don’t search for me. I’ve officially retired, closed all accounts, and sold the house. Donald Mallard doesn’t exist – he never did.**_

“What do you want?” Illya asked, retreating to the corner of the old leather couch tucking his ice-cold feet underneath him and closed the sketchbook he’d left open on the cushions. “Why couldn’t you listen for once?” A slight frown marred his face.

“I came to talk some sense into you and bring you home.” Gibbs said plainly. “Explain to me why I had to chase you half-way around the world and climb a damn mountain, ass deep in snow to find you.”

“This is my home.” Illya smirked. “I was born in here. I’m Russian, Jethro. I have a Russian name.” He looked around the room fondly. “I love this place. I spent a lot of time here as a teenager, growing up, learning to ski, things like that. There are good memories here.”

“That’s fine. Good even. But,” Gibbs agreed easily. “…now that you’ve had a visit you need to come back to DC. Look.” Gibbs eyes bored into Illya’s who merely gave him an unrepentant grin. The famous ‘Gibb’s Glare’ had never worked on him. “First some wacko bombs NCIS then we almost lost you and when we finally get to Hawaii, you pull a damn disappearing act. What were you thinking?” His voice came out sharper than he meant and he gave Illya a quick apologetic glance. He was just so angry. “Why Ducky… Illya… whatever!” He raked a hand through his hair and tried to breathe. “What is so terrible that you had to run away from us? We’re your friends. You almost died, you idiot!”

“I thought I explained that very well, my friend.” Illya smiled sadly. “I did die. I died on the beach. I _died._ I should be dead.” He gave a little snort and continued. “I should’ve been dead years ago.”

_**I should have stayed dead and the kindest thing I can do now is remove myself from your presence.**_

“So you came up here, to the farthest corner of the world – on top of some damn Russian mountain to what… sit here and die?” He took a few deep breaths before continuing. “But you _are_ alive.” Gibbs stopped pacing in front of the windows and glowered at the older man. “Ducky—Illya…” Gibbs waved a ‘whatever’ gesture toward the couch. “If you were meant to be dead, you’d be dead.” Gibbs carefully watched Ducky as he stared out the window, unreasonably annoyed at his calm demeanor.

Illya looked up at Gibbs and rolled his eyes. “The thought had crossed my mind.” Gibbs couldn’t tell if he was serious or not, those sparkling eyes could go either way so he decided to ignore it.

“I just want to die as myself. Is that so hard to understand, Jethro?” He gave Gibbs a sad little smile and shook his head. “Go home and let an old man be. It’s enough to know you … care.”

“Why did you leave? Why are you so sure we wouldn’t accept you that you had to run and hide instead of just telling the truth? Did you do something – unforgivable?”

_**Please forget I ever existed – because Donald Mallard did not. Please forgive me for the thousands of lies. Please let me go.**_

“I’m afraid that’s classified. I can’t share any details on my former … occupation.” Illya shrugged the smirk still firmly in place.

Gibbs growled and dropped heavily into the empty chair. “Damn it all, Duck. Give me something.” Raking a hand through his hair, Gibbs realized Ducky had told him something. _Classified. That meant government agency. Which one of the alphabets? Or black ops – one of those invisible groups. Or was it a Russian agency?_

“Were you a double-agent?” Gibbs refused to believe Ducky had been working against the USA. 

“Heavens no!” The laughter was bright and clear. Gibbs let the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “International. An agency comprised of many nations and nationalities. It doesn’t exist anymore.”

“What exactly did you do for this ‘International Agency’?” Gibbs leaned back and steepled his fingers under his chin. Surely Ducky hadn’t forgotten interrogation is what he did for a living. 

“I followed orders. I went wherever and did what I was told.” Illya nodded at Gibbs. “All very classified.”

_**I remain…  
Faithfully your friend—the man you called Ducky.**_

Grinding his teeth in frustration, Gibbs tried another tack. “Tell me someone personal about Illya Kuryakin. Something, _not classified._ ” McGee nor Abby had found a single bit of information searching under that name. They’d both come to the conclusion that it was a cover name, but if it was truly classified, McGee should’ve been able to hack _something._

Illya took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “Well.” Pausing for breath, he nodded at the expectant look on Gibbs’ face. “Let’s just say many years ago I could have given Anthony’s James Bond a run for his money.” With a deprecating smile and eyes full of laughter he went on. “Although I believe the character was created firstly in fiction by Ian Flemming, a—sorry, I digress.” 

“James Bond?” Gibbs tried to lock onto something he could understand. A fictional character? Wouldn’t DiNozzo love that. Gibbs slumped back, hands gripping each arm rest tightly. 

“Well we tried to be a lot less flamboyant.” Illya tipped his head sideways and back. “My official title was Enforcement Officer. I’m afraid that’s all I can reveal.” 

“Enforcement Officer?” Gibbs was starting to sound like a parrot and wondered when he’d lost control of this interrogation. “You?” Shaking his head, knowing he must have misheard, Gibbs raised an eyebrow in question. “Enforcement? Enforcement of what?”

“Justice.” Illya said flatly and rolled his eyes, raising both palms. “You know what that means.”

“You didn’t just arrest people? You were … an assassin?” Gibbs said flatly. Ducky was a killer? Hard – no, impossible to believe.

“Certainly not.” Illya’s eyes clouded over with memories. “But sometimes there was no choice. They had to be stopped, one way or another. People’s lives were at stake.”

“Duck?” Gibbs leaned forward with sudden attention. “Are there people looking for revenge? After all this time?”

“I rather doubt it.” Illya scoffed. “But I left … left the … job a long time ago.” His voice broke and Illya twisted away to hid his face. Thinking he heard a gasp or a sob, Gibbs shot to his feet, but Illya flung up a stiff hand to stop him. After several deep breaths he went on. 

“I’ve killed so many people.” He whispered hoarsely. “Many more than Ducky ever saved.” His shoulders slumped and his face crumbled. “They come at night, when I can’t sleep and stare…” Illya whispered. “…just stand there beside my bed and stare at me with accusing eyes.” Clutching the sketchbook tightly in both hands, he turned blind eyes to the window. “I know each face intimately. We’re old friends now.”

“Hey.” Gibbs voice was so gentle and earnest that Ducky looked over in surprise and their eyes locked He would do what it took to get _Ducky_ to come home, even if it meant talking about ... emotions. “I know…” He twisted his lips in an approximation of a grimace. “… I’ve killed… I know...” Gibbs trailed off uncomfortably. “The fact that you see them means you’re one of the good guys. If you didn’t see them, didn’t care, then I’d worry.” Visibly shaking himself, Gibbs walked over and laid a comforting hand on Illya’s shoulder. “The only thing standing between them and me – us … is the fact that they were breaking the law. Right?” He waited until Illya nodded sharply. “Ok then.” Walking back to the window he leaned back against the ledge.

“Doesn’t matter what you did as long as you were on the right side of the law.” He gave Illya a crooked grin. “You’re family.” He said earnestly. He needed to get that emotion stuff locked back down before he said something stupid. “We miss you Duck. It’s not the same without you.” 

“Jethro.” Illya protested softly turned to look at his old friend silhouetted against the bright light streaming in. “You know…” He shook his head and started over. “I was Ducky so long, I started to believe I really was Donald Mallard.” Giving a snort of laughter, he went on. “I wanted to _be_ Ducky, be the man that lived all those stories, saved all those lives.” 

“I’ve been undercover. Deep cover, lasting months…” Gibbs turned to stare out the window at the unending snow, touching fingertips to cold glass. “Eventually the cover has to become real, has to _be_ you or you get caught or get dead.” He turned back and leaned against the window ledge beside the chess game. “I can’t imagine there isn’t an awful lot of Illya Kuryakin in Ducky Mallard.”

Illya felt his eyes sting and clenched them shut for a moment. NCIS was the first place he’d ever really belonged after UNCLE and by then Dr. Mallard had fit him like an old, comfortable glove. “Jethro.” Blinking rapidly, Illya kept his eyes on his hands, clenched in his lap. “Jethro.” 

“You’re family Duck and you’re damn well not spending the rest of your life alone at the top of some damn mountain at the end of the world. I don’t give a damn what you call yourself or who you think you are, you’re still my friend! To me—to the team, you’re part of our family and you belong with us. How many times do I have to say it?” 

While Gibbs tried to reign in his temper, Ducky slumped against the back of the couch and stared down at his lap. After a few moments, he gave a little shake and sat up straighter.

“Please forgive my lack of manners. Would you care for a cup of tea Jethro? I’m afraid I don’t have any coffee.” He looked off toward an open doorway. “The kettle should still be hot.” He started to get up, but Gibbs held his hand up to stop him.

“No thanks. I don’t want tea, Duck. I need you to see that we want you to come home. You’ve patched us up, saved our lives, fought beside us—are you telling me that was all a lie?” 

It… not a lie per se.” Illya shrugged. “But… you still don’t seem to understand. I can’t go back. I’m not—I can’t be ‘Ducky’ anymore.” Gibbs could see the guilt in his eyes from a lifetime of lies, but perhaps there was hope too—a slight glimmer of hope that he wasn’t unwelcome—unwanted. 

“I’m not asking you to be something you aren’t. I just want you – _you_ , to come home. Whoever you are.” Gibbs threw his hands up in the air. It was supposed to be easier than this. Maybe he should’ve let all of them come, but he thought it would be easier to handle _Ducky_ on his own.

After a few uncomfortably silent minutes, Illya made a half-hearted move to get up, gesturing at the dark fireplace when Gibbs put out a hand to stop him. “I wondered why it was so damn cold in here. Sit still, I’ll do it.” 

Gibbs walked across the room and knelt on the large hearth stone, quickly and efficiently raking the ashes aside and laying new wood from a basket on the right. They watched the small flame grow until it was a proper fire and then Gibbs got up slowly, favoring his bad knee. “Is a fire the only heat in this old pile of rock? I’m surprised you let it go out.”

“I’m used to the cold.” Illya huffed an amused snort. “There’s a coal furnace in the basement, but the windows suck the heat right out of this room.” It _was_ an old pile, nearly crumbling, yet surprisingly comfortable and of course – his. “But the view is marvelous.”

“You can stay at my place. Until you get your own, that is.” Gibbs leaned against the mantle and let the fire warm his side not bothering to point out that neither of them would be there tomorrow. “DiNozzo can sleep on the couch the next time something busts in his apartment.” Gibbs almost smiled drawing an answering smile from Illya.

“How is Anthony?” Gibbs knew he must have wondered about the team. Some judicious questioning had revealed no one else had found a note upon returning home. “And the others of course.” 

“You can ask him later.” Unable to stay still any longer, Gibbs walked over to the small table holding a chess set in mid-game. Black was losing badly. “He’s in the ski lodge at the base of the hill nursing a twisted ankle. Probably got a cute, little blond giving him mouth-to-mouth by now.” Picking up the queen, his fingers traced the carving in admiration. 

“I didn’t realize Anthony spoke Russian.” Illya mused.

“I don’t think conversation is what he has in mind.” Gibbs said dryly.

“I wondered how you managed to get halfway around the world without your shadow.” Illya chuckled and turned his face back to the warmth of the fire. It was disgusting how easily he got cold these days. “I’m glad you won’t be going back alone.”

“I won’t be going alone because I’m taking you with us. You belong with the people that care about you.” Gibbs looked up from his examination of the queen and picked up another chess piece staring at it intensely. “Not leaving here without you.”

“I’m not going anywhere Jethro.” Illya insisted, but Gibbs ignored him and went on talking. 

“Need to get you packed and out of here before DiNozzo finds his one true love du jour and decides he wants to stay.” Gibbs grinned and stood shoving both hands in his jeans pockets. “Or breaks a leg trying to ski down one of these damn mountains. Whichever comes first.”

“Jethro…” Illya protested twisting around and putting his feet up on the sofa. “I haven’t agreed to go anywhere.” Tossing the sketchbook on the coffee table, he shook his head emphatically. “Bring Anthony up here and spend the night. I’ll let you know my decision in the morning.”

“His ankle really is twisted. He’ll never make it up here and I can’t leave him down there alone.” Gibbs put the chess piece down and caught Illya’s eye. “Don’t think I won’t drag you off this hill, barefoot or not.” Gibbs promised. 

When the silence dragged on, Gibbs glared at Illya lounging back against sofa, arms crossed and one eyebrow mockingly high. “What?” He sat down heavily, annoyed that Du – Illya was fighting him on this.

“There must be some bits of Dr. Mallard stubbornly hanging on.” Quirking one side of his mouth up he lowered the eyebrow. “Ducky might let you drag him willy-nilly down the side of a mountain. Illya, on the other hand …”

“I’m not playing games here… _Duck._ ” Gibbs used his nickname deliberately trying to force a reaction out of the older man.

Illya merely gave him a lopsided smile. “There’s a snowmobile in the shed. Go and get Anthony and then we’ll talk. You probably have more questions. I’m sure Anthony will. I’ll try to answer what I can.”

Gibbs eyebrows both snapped up and he sat up straight. “You rode a snowmobile up here? You?”

I may be old Jethro, but I’m not dead.” 

~o0o~

_FIN_


End file.
